


just to hear you say it

by JewFlexive



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Is A Good Friend, BAMF Morgana (Merlin), F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Good Morgana (Merlin), Gwen Is Objectively The Best Person In Camelot, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Revealed, Male Friendship, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Merlin (Merlin), Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), in other news i stan one (1) king and it is arthur, let! merlin! take! a! nap!, morgana and arthur are ride or die, no beta we die like ygraine, this got way angstier than i intended whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewFlexive/pseuds/JewFlexive
Summary: This,Merlin thinks to himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth,this is the choice that will define who I am: more than my choice to kill Nimue, more than my choice to listen to the dragon, more than any choice I make for Arthur’s sake.Because this choice is not about Merlin and his ever-ephemeral destiny. This choice is about Morgana, whom he never wishes to abandon, the whip-quick, raven-haired Lady who Arthur loves beyond reason and Gwen adores.{In which Merlin tells Morgana the truth, forging a partnership that topples kings, unites kingdoms, and makes Arthur and Gwen's relationship angst look tame in comparison.}
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Morgana (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 133





	just to hear you say it

“Then you believe me?” Morgana asks Merlin, her flyaway curls framing her terrified, tear stained face in a way that tugs at his heartstrings. She looks like an angel now, all in white, and Merlin has to shake himself to keep from staring. He should be used to the nobility by now. “You think it's magic too!”

Merlin gulps and weighs his options. He could tell her the truth. Morgana is alone and frightened and Merlin knows deep in his bones what it is to be caught up in that sort of terror. Will, his mother, even dear old Gaius-- none of them have ever really understood how having magic makes Merlin feel. How lonely it is, how confusing and perilous every second feels when forbidden bolts of lightning zip through his blood and such raw power hums frenzied under his skin. But Merlin can be the person Morgana needs, who he himself needed once. He can reach out his hand and offer it, can tell her the truth. She can feel known, safe in ways Merlin knows he isn’t. All he has to do is open his mouth. But Gaius’s warning echoes in his ears. Uther’s word is law and it is hateful. This admission could kill him. 

Yet, it could also save Morgana, and that possibility matters more than any excuse that Merlin can think up. Saying something could save her life as surely as it could doom his own, because isn’t living this big a lie a sort of death? Won’t it kill her, to hide herself right under the nose of a madman without any sanctuary to flee to? Merlin doesn’t know where he’d be if Gauis wasn’t his mentor, if Merlin’s secret was his to bear alone.

 _This_ , Merlin thinks to himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, _this is the choice that will define who I am_ : _more than my choice to kill Nimue, more than my choice to listen to the dragon, more than any choice I make for Arthur’s sake_. Because this choice is not about Merlin and his ever-ephemeral destiny. This choice is about Morgana, whom he never wishes to abandon, the whip-quick, raven-haired Lady who Arthur loves beyond reason and Gwen adores. 

“Please, Merlin,” her voice, usually so flinty and level and always just this side of smug, cracks a little, breaks, and Merlin’s heart plummets down to his toes. “I just need to hear someone say it so I don't have to keep feeling like I'm imagining it.”

Morgana’s fear is palpable, it is sitting down in the room with them. This unwelcome guest, this starving monster, is what pushes the words out of Merlin’s mouth, what forces him to betray his mentor’s words. It is what makes him grab onto Morgana’s arm as she turns to run away, her beautiful face contorted into a depressing mixture of desperation and terror and disappointment. 

“I think a lot of things, my lady,” he tells her quietly, softly, soothing her as if she were a skittish horse. His hand is pressing firmly into the silk on her nightdress, his dry, calloused skin catching onto the soft cloth. He winces, but does not let go. He could never. “But not many of those thoughts are welcome in Camelot.”

Morgana’s pale eyes widen as Merlin continues, his voice somehow still steady despite the fact his knees are knocking and his lips are trembling. 

“I am like you, Morgana,” he finally admits, dismissing the customary honorific. It is not Merlin the servant who speaks to Morgana now, but Merlin the warlock, Merlin, who has the very same magic attempting to escape his fingertips every time he takes a breath. “So, unless both our _imaginations_ are too wild for their own good…” Merlin trails off, and Morgana’s face is frozen. For a split-second, Merlin wants to run, run far far away and pray that Uther will never find him, but then Morgana surges forward with an elated cry, flinging her arms around him, and he instantaneously has an armful of crying sorceress.

“You’re like me,” Morgana is grinning widely despite her tears, and pealing laughter peaks through her sobs. Her hands grip tightly onto his doublet like he will disappear, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades. But Merlin won’t disappear, not on anyone like him. He won’t disappear on kind-hearted Morgana. “You’re like me.”

“Yes,” Merlin breathes, and he is smiling despite the fact he is pretty sure Gaius will break his no-thrashing policy after Merlin tells his mentor what he’s done. But Morgana’s dark curls are soft and sweet-smelling on Merlin’s cheek, and the feeling of a knowing embrace is heady and comforting beyond words. “Yes, I’m like you.”

(The dragon is raging in Merlin’s ears, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not even a little.)

* * *

For all the monsters and evil magic users he has had to face, an angry Gaius is probably the most terrifying thing Merlin has ever encountered. His face gets red and swollen like an apple, and his voice shakes violently like one of Arthur’s training dummies after a particularly good _thwack._

But Morgana ends up sneaking into his chambers later that night, sitting down next to him on his pallet, and her relief billows off of her in waves, and it is worth the extra chores for the way she looks at him. Merlin offers to learn magic with her, and she all but demands they start at once, her eyes bright and sparkling like stars. Later, he has to clap a hand over her mouth after he shows her a spell book and she all but shrieks in delight, but that is alright. He doesn’t think the shock and awe will last long for her. Morgana has always been clever, and Merlin thinks she will quickly surpass him in the study of sorcery. 

(Of course, the first spell he teaches her is a silencing charm, but that is only reasonable. Not as a commentary on her giddy laughter, he assures her between his own amused huffs. Not a commentary at all.)

Merlin likes Morgana when he doesn’t have to worry about titles or appropriate behavior, and he doesn’t-- not at night when she decides the gifts they share make them equals. Most nights, the two of them pore over Gauis’ old tomes, sitting with their backs against Merlin’s wall and taking turns reading aloud to one another. These nights Merlin loves because Morgana is clever and sharp and good and helps him practice that sleeping enchantment he still can’t quite master. 

But sometimes Morgana creeps into the dark room with red-rimmed eyes and an uneasy smile as she leans against Merlin’s shoulder without saying a word. Her nightmares are the one bit of her magic that she refuses to discuss, but Merlin does not begrudge Morgana her silence. She said once that the future is a nebulous, terrifying thing, and there is nothing good that can come from knowing it ahead of time. He tries not to think about what she sees. He tries to limit his thoughts to the stories he tells her, the muted colors of the night sky, how she sighs when he sings soft lullabies into her ear.

These nights, he and Morgana sit on his bed, backs against the headboard as he distracts her with simple melodies and silly fairy stories until she smiles again. These nights, Merlin tries hard not to enjoy. But the fact that she trusts him, that they are partners in this deep-rooted deception, lends Merlin a sense of companionship not unlike the one he shares with Arthur.

Morgana, Merlin knows, will not betray him. Not only because doing so would be betraying herself and her magic, but because they are each other’s in this. When the Druid boy was being hunted, it was Morgana who Merlin trusted above all else. Just like when Morgana was dreaming terrible futures, it was Merlin who she came to. There is a deep kinship between them— there always has been, even before all the nights they spend giggling like children over forbidden spells and long-forgotten enchantments. Perhaps, Morgana muses one night as they read from _Galdorcwideas Mæst Angsuman_ , it was their magic calling out to one another, magnetic. Like seeking like. 

(Merlin is not a Seer, but the two of them sitting here in the dark, Morgana’s hand clasped tightly in his, feels like the future.)

* * *

Merlin’s nights are Morgana’s and hers alone, but late afternoons belong to Arthur. Then, the prince is all but finished with his daily duties, and often sneaks a pitcher of cider into his chambers with a roguish grin. Then, the two of them dispense with pretense and play cards. Arthur is good at all the games they play, as he is, it seems, at everything, but Merlin somehow always ends up winning the small amount of change they take to gambling off. Arthur’s eyes twinkle impishly, and each time he loudly demands a rematch, and Merlin likes to pretend to miss the fact that Arthur is smirking, satisfied, when Merlin inevitably wins the pot.

(Merlin also likes to pretend that Arthur isn’t a better companion in this life than fiery, bitter Will ever truly was, that he isn’t fond of Arthur because he chooses to be, but because Gaius says it will make things easier. But that is neither here nor there.)

Arthur is all sunlight and clear blue skies and dewy grass, and Merlin, who was born in the cold dead of night and whose secrets stay there, finds him refreshing. Arthur, for all his bluster and foolish pride is a capable and caring prince who might one day be the greatest king in the history of all the realms. But he is most importantly a good and decent man who wants to improve himself for the sake of his people. And Merlin cannot help but admire that. But for all the Merlin sincerely likes the prince, he cannot stand Arthur’s propensity for meddling in his life. 

“I know you see Morgana,” the prince mentions one day in what he probably deems a casual tone, wiping a drop of cider from the corner of his wide mouth. “I know she visits you sometimes.”

Merlin freezes for a moment, but forces himself to focus on the cards before him, stark white, black, and red against the light wooden table. Arthur has just played the Queen of Hearts. A good move-- too good. Arthur might just win this round. Merlin presses his lips together tightly as considers his hand. 

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, running a hand through his golden hair and leaning back into his chair. “Don’t be difficult, you idiot, I’m trying to help you.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Merlin tells the prince in earnest, looking up from his cards to meet Arthur’s eyes, for in all honesty, Merlin has never thought of Morgana _that_ way. Not really. Not recently. “The lady likes to talk to me sometimes, that’s all. We talk about silly things, nothing important. I can’t explain why she does it, and it’s not like I can tell her to leave when she decides to come and visit.”

“She visits you at night, Merlin,” Arthur continues, his eyes wide and concerned. “I know you being a servant, you can’t really refuse her, but surely there’s something…”

The prince trails off, and that’s how Merlin knows that this isn’t the interrogation he feared. This is Arthur trying to warn Merlin, to aid him, to advise him, and Merlin almost wants to laugh, because look, the dragon is wrong again! It is not only Merlin who is Arthur’s protector, his silent shield, for Arthur is also Merlin’s sworn sword, the knight who rode into another king’s lands to save a village that did not owe him fealty. Arthur is the man who has broken his own father’s laws time and time again without Merlin having to even attempt to convince him. This is Arthur, and Arthur is a man willing to die for his people, willing to gulp down goblets of poison and ride into countless unwinnable battles to fix whatever breaks, even (especially) if he is not the one who broke it. Arthur doesn’t need Merlin to be a great king. He could be one all on his own, and Merlin is so, so glad of it. 

“I’ll be alright,” Merlin murmurs, answering Arthur’s unspoken question. “All will be well, Arthur, you’ll see.”

Arthur nods and smiles a little, a quick grin that fades too quickly for Merlin’s liking. 

“You know, Merlin,”Arthur whispers back sadly, his gaze suddenly seeming very far away as a woman idly hums a jaunty melody just outside the closed door. “Sometimes, when you say that, I almost believe you.”

(Arthur forgets to let Merlin win this time. Merlin wonders where he’s heard that tune before.)

* * *

The night they defeat the Witchfinder, Morgana crawls into Merlin’s bed.

He had been sleeping, dreaming uneasily of a city burning and a familiar man with dark eyes who loved him. It was not a deep sleep, and anyhow, Merlin can’t think of any man who wouldn’t be jolted awake by the Lady Morgana burying her head into his chest. For a moment, Merlin doesn’t move; he is too overwhelmed by the curve of Morgana’s neck and the way her small hands are curled into his nightshirt, her fingers brushing the exposed bits of his chest nearly imperceptibly. 

“Morgana, what--” he finally exclaims and tries to scramble away because this isn’t what they do. It isn’t right, and Merlin is not willing to sacrifice their camaraderie for whatever Morgana thinks she’s doing. For whatever she thinks she _wants_ to be doing. 

Morgana only shakes her head and pushes him back, placing one elbow on either side of his head as she looks down at him, her dark hair a veil shrouding them both until all Merlin can see is her face. In the moonlight, her eyes look more piercing than ever, and the shadows from her curls make her face look mysterious and ethereal, almost dream-like. Merlin has never seen a more stunning sight. Sometimes he forgets that Morgana is not just his partner in crime, but a woman. A beautiful woman, at that.

But Morgana is also _right_ on top of him, and that is leagues away from okay. 

“Get off of me, Morgana,” he tries to keep his voice firm, but he knows it is wavering. She has a tiny freckle on her pulse point, so small that he’s never seen it until just now, and it is entrancing him. His mouth parts and he unconsciously licks his lips. Morgana smells of honey and wildflowers and the white wine from dinner and oh, Merlin just might die from the sweetness of it all.

“Are you going to try to run away again?” Morgana demands, one eyebrow raised. She leans in closer, so close that he can feel her breath on his lips.

“Wha…” 

“Merlin!” she says again fiercely, loud enough for him to worry Gauis will wake. The fear of the old man finding them like _this_ works better than a bucket of cold water. “Will you run away?”

“No,” Merlin replies, swallowing. He wills himself calm, wills his voice steady. “No, I won’t.”

“Good,” Morgana nods decisively, taking her previous position smoothly, her ear to his heart. He hopes that she doesn’t realize how fast it’s pounding, that she doesn’t start touching his chest again. But all they do is lay there in silence for a while, and soon Merlin is comfortable enough to start stroking her hair as he usually does when she has a nightmare. Her hair is smooth and soft and smells like flowers, and the action calms him as much as it does her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she finally tells him as she lets out a contented little hum, leaning into his hand. “Even with my bracelet. I always sleep better after I see you, so I thought I would just…”

“Cut out the middleman?” Merlin finishes, leaving out his usual jibe regarding that damned cuff. Right now he is warm and comfortable and too tired to be practical, and that fight is getting old anyhow. He can tell that Morgana notices his surrender when he feels her grin into his chest.

“That’s a good way to put it,” she murmurs, smiling softly and tilting her head to look up at him. Her lips are breaths away from his own, and her eyelashes leave dancing shadows on her cheeks as her eyelids flutter. Her nose brushes his, and her voice seems huskier than normal.“Do you mind?”

Merlin wants to laugh, but he fears if he moves that he will end up kissing her. _Does he mind?_

“No,” he manages instead, twining a lock of her hair around his pointer finger, marveling at the way it gleams in the dim moonlight. “I was just surprised, Morgana. That’s all.”

She hums happily again, smiling a little wider and flipping over so that she is laying on her stomach, half on his chest and half on the straw pallet beneath them. She idly traces patterns on his forehead with one pale finger, her grin fading slowly as her face grows contemplative. She studies Merlin intently, her eyes roving over him a little hungrily, and he remains still under her ministrations, letting himself relax for the first time in days.

“I could love you,” she whispers a moment or two later, her voice wavering, and oh, how Merlin wishes she didn’t sound so afraid, that he could save her from ever sounding so uncertain again. “I was sitting in my rooms, waiting for the Witchfinder to arrest me, to kill me for something I couldn’t control, and I thought to myself: _I could love Merlin, and he could love me_. I thought of how wonderful it would be, to love you like that. To love you like my mother loved my father. _I could love him_ , I thought. _I could love him so, so much_. But I can’t love you, can I, Merlin? And you can’t love me either.”

Merlin wasn’t even supposed to tell Morgana about magic. He wasn’t supposed to become her friend. Merlin has ignored every warning from the dragon about her. At this point, the rules of men shouldn’t bother him, not really.

But then Merlin thinks about how Arthur looks at Gwen when the prince thinks he’s alone, how the prince takes to faking his smiles more often than not. He thinks about how sometimes when Merlin is with Gwen, he can feel Arthur trying valiantly not to look at them both, a futile effort if there ever was one. He thinks about Uther, and the crushing fear that keeps Arthur from picking Gwen up and spinning her around and around and kissing her breathless. Merlin thinks of sweet, kind-hearted Gwen and her sad eyes.

He doesn’t want that. And Morgana doesn’t either. What they have is good and beautiful, but hard enough as it is. 

Merlin wants to tell her that he could love her too. He wants to tell her that she’s the most wonderful person, that he doesn’t know what he’d do without her, that the world seems emptier and dimmer, somehow, when she’s not by his side, whispering snide things into his ear and grinning so wide he can see her eye-teeth. That when she is near him, the rattling, mangled thing that has been caught inside his chest for as long as he can remember quiets, and he can _breathe_ again. He wants to tell her that the way she looks at him makes his heart stutter and his hands shake in ways he’d thought unique to storybooks and his mother’s fairy tales. But these aren’t things he can say. Loving her isn’t something he can do.

His silence damns them both, and Morgana doesn’t even look surprised, just achingly melancholy. She moves to leave, then, her eyes shiny and so, so sad, but Merlin snakes an arm around her waist and stays her exit. Her breath quickens, and Merlin thinks for the first time that she may be just as affected by this closeness as he is. 

“I’ll sleep better with you here, too, Morgana,” he mumbles into her hair, risking a kiss to the top of her head. He leaves his lips there, screwing his eyes shut and breathing heavily as he tries not to do something foolish like cry. Morgana lets out a big breath of air and weaves her fingers into the hand that’s still wrapped around her waist. “You don’t have to go. Not yet, anyway.”

“No,” Morgana mumbles, peeking at him through her eyelashes before letting her lips, petal soft, brush over Merlin’s cheek. He closes his eyes and exhales brokenly at the contact. She sighs sadly, her face pressed into Merlin’s shoulder as he pulls her closer. “No, not yet.”

(She sneaks out of his room just as the sun begins to rise, and the way she looks at him, shattered and determined, should scream finality. The decision is made; They can and will not act on these feelings realized in the shadow of death. But something large and cumbersome has shifted, and Merlin is left staring at his ceiling well into the morning just contemplating the pendency of it all. He feels like he did that night so long ago when he’d first told Morgana about his powers. Something new is beginning, now, and it is terrifying. It makes Merlin wish, not for the first nor the last time, that magic was stuck firmly in the history books.)

* * *

Freya dies in his arms, and Merlin comes home with a hollow pit somewhere where his chest should be, locking himself in his room for three days after he speaks to Gauis. His mentor pleads ill health to Arthur, who Merlin is later surprised and touched to hear tried to see him every day of his self-imposed exile, each time with a deck of cards and a pitcher in hand. Gwen makes him her famous chicken and carrot soup and tries to talk to him through the door, but Merlin remains silent, staring at his wall and not bothering to wipe the tears off his cheeks. But by the fourth morning, Morgana spells the door open and steps right in.

It only takes her a moment to get her bearings; She’s always been adaptable, and he knows she’s proud of it. Not seconds after she enters, she has the measure of him, knowing enough to do nothing but sit next to him on the dusty floor, her shoulder touching his. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn his head or indicate his awareness of her, not until she opens her mouth and begins to sing quietly, right next to his ear. 

_Lavender's green, dilly dilly, lavender's blue,  
_ _If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you  
_ _Let the birds sing, dilly dilly, let the lambs play.  
_ _We shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm’s way._

It is a song he likes to sing to her when she has nightmares, and they both know it by heart. But he’s never heard _her_ sing it before. Her voice is clear and high and true, and Merlin’s throat clenches. He doesn’t move then, so much as lose himself, burying his face into the curve of Morgana’s neck and making a noise that sounds almost inhuman, something twisting painfully, sharply within him. Morgana hushes him softly, reaching up to smooth her hand over his head.

“I could have loved her,” Merlin finally cries, his tears staining her blue silk dress. He tries to pull away, then, this is one of her preferred gowns, but instead she maneuvers his head so that it is in her lap. He turns, his nose pressed to the bottom of her brocade bodice, and curls his body around her. He deliriously imagines himself as a dragon, protecting Morgana, his treasure who does not begrudge his tears for another woman. He will protect her, he will, he will never lose Morgana, no, not ever, not like he lost quiet, shining Freya whose kisses tasted like sunshine and strawberries and summer.

“I know, darling,” Morgana’s voice alone is a lilting melody, sweet and sorrowful and so desperately welcome. “Oh, sweetheart, I know.”

“Why did she have to go?” Merlin’s tears are coming stronger now, and some far off part of his mind observes that Gwen will most certainly have his head once she sees the state of her mistress’ dress. “Why did this have to happen?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Morgana whispers sadly, and her voice is a balm as her fingers toy with the ends of his hair. Her ministrations are rhythmic and he takes solace in the easy comfort her hands are providing. “I wish I did. But you’re not alone, do you understand me? You’re not alone.”

Merlin lets out another gasping sob as he nods against Morgana’s bodice, clinging to her, almost childlike, fearing above all else that he may one day have no choice but to let go of her, too.

* * *

The whole of Camelot is silent as Merlin and Morgana wait for Arthur to return to the throne room. Merlin is clammy and afraid and the room is blurry but Morgana has a tight grip on his hand and Arthur hasn’t lost a battle yet, so Merlin is stubbornly refusing to entertain the possibility that they might not win this time. Morgana, however, holds no such illusions.

“I’m the source, aren’t I?” She whispers into his shoulder, her chapped lips catching on the old red cloth. “That’s why you stopped by your chambers. You needed--”

Merlin shakes his head abruptly, cutting her off. 

“No,” he insists, steadfastly ignoring the fact that she’s absolutely right as he turns to hold Morgana’s face in his hands and run his thumbs across her cheekbones, pressing his forehead to hers. “No, that can’t be it.”

“Don’t be a fool, Merlin,” Morgana tells him quietly, gently pulling away to gesture around the empty, still room. “A spell this powerful needs to draw upon a source other than the caster, and--” her voice catches as she breaks eye contact with him to fiddle with the cuff around her wrist. “Morgause wouldn’t ever hurt me. She told me--” Morgana abruptly stops speaking as her eyes widen guiltily and anger burns in Merlin’s throat like dragonfire. 

“What, then,” Merlin hisses, pulling his hand away from hers violently, making her wince. “Did Morgause tell you? When did you even see her? You need to _tell_ me these things, I need to be _informed_.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Morgana tosses her head imperiously, her long curtain of dark hair nearly whipping Merlin in the face. 

“Forgive me,” she replies icily. “I didn’t know I _reported_ to you regarding my social engagements.”

“ _Social engagements_?!?” Merlin sputters, standing up to pace, his rage feuling him enough that the spell is no longer tiring him, the hemlock in his jacket bumping up against his chest. “Is that what you call secret meetings with a madwoman?”

“She’s not mad, Merlin!” Morgana exclaims her eyes growing wild to match his frenzy, parking herself in front of his pacing to press a hand to his chest, pushing him back so that he’s against one of the arches, the cold stone pressing against the few patches of skin that his shirt doesn’t cover, serving to awaken him even more. “She only wants Uther to pay for--”

A terrifying idea dawns on Merlin and suddenly he wonders if he should have listened to Kilgharrah more closely, heeded his counsel in regards to his friend. If the Great Dragon has been right all along.

“Did you know?”

Morgana pauses, one dark eyebrow raised as she considers him, frowning. 

“Did I know what?”

“Did you know she would do this?” Merlin screams, grabbing at Morgana and wrestling her until their positions are switched and his forearm is resting against her throat, not quite hard enough to hurt, but close enough that he starts to feel more in control. “Did you know that this was coming?”

Morgana tries to struggle, but Merlin will not rest until he gets his answer. No matter how much he loves Morgana, no matter what they share, Arthur always comes first. Albion always _has_ to come first. If Morgana is in league with Morgause, if that blonde bitch has succeeded in doing what Alvarr could not, then he will show no mercy. Arthur and Camelot must be protected from all threats, and Merlin doesn’t have the luxury of getting sentimental about what or who the threat may be. He can’t spare his Morgana if she has done this. He can’t. He _can’t._

“Did you know?” He asks Morgana, his eyes burning with unshed tears and the strain of staying open. As he looks at her, Merlin begins to beg, to plead with her, his arm dropping from her neck as his other hand reaches to caress Morgana’s pale and trembling face. “Tell me you didn’t, Morgana, please, tell me you didn’t know.”

She shakes her head minutely. 

“I didn’t,” she murmurs, her own eyes watering as she grips the hand against her cheek and presses her face into it. “I didn’t think she would. I thought she was posturing or, or…” she trails off, swallowing. Merlin gives her a moment to recover before she continues. “I never would have allowed it if I thought she could actually, if I thought this would--”

Merlin wants to kick himself for his doubt, for his lack of faith in Morgana’s intrinsic kindness. There is a reason he trusts her, more than one reason, really, but everything Morgause related sets Merlin’s teeth on edge and makes him ten times more paranoid. He hates himself for making Morgana cry, for ever imagining that she could be a part of a spell so dark and painful when she is kindness and light down to her very bones. He hates how tired he is, how his moods are so volatile and extreme even as his body is slowing down. With a quick, crooning noise, Merlin gathers Morgana to his chest as she begins to sob openly, apologizing brokenly even as he mutters sweet assurances and hums a lullaby into her ear to calm her. 

But in all this confusion, Merlin had forgotten the bottle of hemlock in his jacket.

Before he even realizes what’s happening, Morgana has the bottle and is pressing it between her lips, tilting her head back and swallowing its contents in their entirety, and Merlin can do nothing but scream brokenly for her to stop. She throws the bottle to the ground and sways, her hands grasping for Merlin’s shoulders as they both fall to the floor, her head cradled in Merlin’s lap.

“Morgana,” he cannot even begin to process what just happened because Morgana’s breath is slowing down and even imagining a world without her is bleak and terrible and the light in her eyes is wavering and _oh, gods not her, please not her, anyone, anyone but her_. “What have you done?”

“Make Morgause lift the curse before she heals me,” Morgana gasps, each word clearly costing her energy she can’t risk wasting, and Merlin hushes her as he strokes her hair and tries desperately to think of the spell that will heal her, that will make this all go away. “Don’t let… heal me before she… the curse.”

Just as Merlin promises Morgana, just as he presses one, two kisses to her rapidly cooling forehead, the doors fly open and in walks Morgause. Merlin turns to her, his grip on Morgana tightening as he watches the sorceress’ eyes widen in alarm.

 _You don’t love her,_ Merlin thinks wretchedly as he and Morgause make a deal for Camelot and Morgana’s life. _You don’t love her like I do, you don’t, you could never. I love her, do you hear me? I LOVE HER!_

Uther and Arthur and the rest watch as Morgause whisks Morgana’s body away in a blaze of power and Merlin knows, intellectually, that Morgana will live, that all will be well soon, that Morgana is too clever to stay down for long and that Morgause has no reason to wish her harm, but the last ten minutes are weighing on him like iron chains and damn it all that’s _his_ Morgana who was taken, her body still cold, and no ounce of logic can make Merlin stop sobbing into his pillow that night, can make his hands stop reaching for her in his dreams.

(Later that night, Merlin catches Arthur crying inconsolably, wrapped up in Gwen’s warm and willing arms and Merlin almost chokes on the jealousy he feels, almost dies from it.)

* * *

When he sees her again, she is smiling, wrapped up tightly in Arthur’s arms and it is a miracle. Merlin is struck dumb from the sight of it, leaning back against the wall as he drinks her in. She is as beautiful as ever, and it is like the weight of the world has been lifted off of his shoulders.

Morgana sees Merlin, too, then, over Arthur’s shoulder, and her eyes widen as she pulls away from the prince and runs towards him, a wide, jubilant grin taking over her face as she throws herself at him, burrowing herself in Merlin’s arms as if she never wants to leave. Arthur begins to laugh, then, loudly, and everything is perfect as Merlin breathes in Morgana’s floral perfume for the first time in a year and presses tiny, invisible kisses to her crown. He thanks Heaven for her with a whispered benediction, thanks Heaven for her soft weight in his arms and the way she is sighing into his shoulder. Morgana looks up at him after they’ve clung to each other silently for a full minute, her eyes shining, a goddess in human form, and Merlin really wishes he could kiss her properly because this _thing_ between them has only seemed to intensify with her absence. But Arthur is looking at them both with a type of uncharacteristic glee that is making Merlin nervous. 

“Guinevere owes me three kisses!” Arthur crows, going so far as to dance haphazardly around Morgana’s chambers, making his way over to press a smacking kiss on both Morgana and Merlin’s cheeks, shocking them both beyond speech and leaving Merlin longing for the sweet release of death. “She said you were just friends but _I_ knew there was more to it. _I_ am a genius!”

Arthur pulls them both into a huge hug before looking at them both very seriously, his mouth turning down, but before he can get a word in (and Merlin just _knows_ which one of Arthur’s torturous, well-meaning lectures is on its way) Morgana interjects, barely concealing her mirth.  
  
“Did you and Gwen make a bet?” Morgana asks Arthur, laughter coloring her voice in a way that makes Merlin’s heart want to beat out of his chest. She is still holding onto Merlin’s shoulders. He can’t imagine ever letting her go again.

Arthur nods excitedly. “Obviously-- and I just won. Why aren’t you celebrating?”

Morgana shakes her head, and she can no longer hide her grin as she raises her eyebrows. 

“You and Gwen made a bet,” Morgana teases, her smooth voice lilting mockingly. “And you bet _kisses_?” 

At Arthur’s affirmative shrug, Morgana finally throws her head back and laughs, and Merlin is helplessly entranced by the fact that she is _here_ , in the flesh, free from Morgause and spell-binding as ever. Arthur, on the other hand, looks painfully affronted at the idea that there is anything humorous about his and his lady love’s very serious wager. 

“ _Guinevere_ bet kisses,” he informs them both haughtily, sticking his nose up in the air in that way only he has mastered. “ _I_ bet my best horse.”

Merlin stifles a guffaw into Morgana’s hair before he turns to Arthur to assure the prince that he and Morgana are just very, very good friends, that the prince’s dear noble steed shall be getting a new mistress after all, but Arthur just rolls his eyes before Merlin even opens his mouth. 

“The bet never stipulated that the two of you had to be _aware_ of your deep and abiding passion for one another, _Merlin_ ,” he informs them both impishly, ruffling Morgana’s hair and handily dancing out of range of her retaliation. “I would never risk Samuel on a bet that relied on your intelligence.”

(At that, Morgana kicks Arthur in the shin and demands that he quit the room, and Merlin gets the last laugh when Arthur has to limp into Uther’s banquet that night, his cheek still shining with Gwen’s lip salve.)

* * *

“I’m a High Priestess now,” Morgana tells Merlin idly as they both pore over the steps of a truth serum together. There’s a visiting nobleman in Camelot who they both are convinced is in league with Morgause, and with Arthur having invited the man to dinner, Merlin has had an idea to lace the guest’s meal with the potion, just in case. “That should make these sorts of things easier.”

Merlin stops short and stares at her, open mouthed. He wants to ask how, but there’s this distance in Morgana’s pale eyes that stops him, the same distance that creeps into them whenever Morgana is pressed about the year she was missing. Morgana is always so sharp and clever, and the vacancy Merlin sees in her now and whenever she mentions her time with her sister scares him, deeply. So Merlin silently files the information away for another day and settles for making some impressed noises in the back of his throat. Morgana smiles widely then, and the shadows in her eyes melt into nearly nothing, and Merlin thinks that’s most likely the best he can hope for.

This Merlin knows: Morgana will probably never tell him about the missing year, that those days will always remain secrets from him, closely guarded. Part of Merlin hates it. Morgana has not kept a secret from him since the night when he revealed his magic, and it is painful to contemplate this new distance between them. On the other hand, Merlin doesn’t think he could survive hearing what she went through, not he who accused her of treason moments before she saved all of Camelot, not he who let Morgause take her from his arms. Merlin doesn’t think he wants to know what happened, not ever, because he knows the blame lies with him as much as it does with her thrice damned sister.

(The truth serum ends up working a little too well-- while Lord Daryn does admit to his treasonous activities, Arthur also ends up telling Merlin a truly horrifying story involving a jar of strawberry jam, two pieces of dark chocolate, and Gwen’s favorite bodice that the warlock did not need to know _thank you very much_. If Merlin ends up knocking Arthur out with his pitcher just to stop his prattling and blaming the unconscious prince on Lord Daryn, well, the nobleman already committed treason, so the details are hardly relevant.) 

* * *

“Morgause is right about one thing, you know, despite her methods,” Morgana muses, idly twirling a lock of her hair around her finger as she stares listlessly out her window. It’s hot today, making them both lazy and slow. Gwen has made herself scarce, probably at Arthur’s insistence, the meddling prat, so Merlin and Morgana don’t have to wait for nightfall to spend time together today. Merlin is grateful-- not only for the opportunity to be with Morgana, but because he hesitates to leave her alone when she gets like this-- so eerily calm and colorless. There is a queer lilt to her voice when she talks about Morgause that has always made Merlin nervous, and after a full year in her sister’s company, Merlin is worried that Morgana has started to lose herself to the ice that threatens to creep over her heart. “Uther has to die.”

Merlin swallows and leans back against Morgana’s legs. She’s not too far gone right now-- her hands are still tangled tenderly into his hair and when he looks up, her brow is still relaxed and gentle. But Merlin knows Morgana’s moods as well as he knows Arthur’s, so he’s well aware that he’d better nip this in the bud if he doesn’t want to lose Morgana for the rest of the day.

“He will die,” Merlin replies slowly, drawing out each syllable. A bead of sweat drips down Morgana’s neck as she looks down at him. He tries for levity. “Eventually.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Morgana’s eyes harden into ice crystals as she looks at him, her breath starting to speed up. She presses her lips together, her face equal parts afraid and furious.

“That’s not soon enough, Merlin,” Morgana murmurs, shaking her head, moving one of her quivering hands to brush an errant piece of hair out of his eyes. She’s lovely, so unspeakably lovely, even when she is this cold and terrible. Merlin loves her so much he fears that he might choke on the feeling. “He has to pay for what he’s done. To Gauis and Gwaine and Gwen and Morgause and Mordred and everyone, _everyone_ with magic. For what he’s done to you. What he’s going to do to Arthur.”

She’s gotten frenzied since she’s started to speak, her breath coming out in sharp pants. She slides down next to Merlin and buries her face into his chest, one hand still wrapped around his neck like a vice and the other gripping onto his shirt for dear life. Merlin sighs sadly, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. She does this now, once in a while-- forgets how to breathe and drowns in her terror and rage until she’s a sobbing mess that only Merlin or Arthur can put back together. Uther had tried the first time it had happened, but Morgana had screamed so loudly-- a sound of anguish so piercing and heart-breaking that it has begun to seep into Merlin’s nightmares-- when he went to touch her that Arthur had needed to carry her out of the dining room to soothe her. 

(Merlin knows that Morgana thinks her episodes are a weakness, but Arthur, of all the people in Camelot, firmly disabuses her of that notion constantly, once even haltingly explaining how, for months after his first battle, the prince would hide under his bed for a few hours a day because the world was just too bright and wild and he couldn’t look at his sword without wanting to cry. 

_I don’t know a single soldier who has ever completely escaped the horrors of the battlefield, Morgana,_ Arthur had murmured to Morgana that first evening as she pressed her face into the hollow of his throat, so softly that Merlin could barely hear, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Arthur had pressed his forehead to Morgana’s temple before continuing, his usual brash confidence replaced with a gentle, knowing kindness. _There is no shame in being afraid. What you went through was horrible and it’s alright to hurt. This is part of being a warrior. And you’re a warrior, aren’t you Morgana? You’re the bravest warrior I’ve ever known._

After Morgana had calmed, Arthur had quietly explained to Merlin what he should do if it happened again and demanded that he be informed if it did, whispering that Merlin was the only other person he trusted with her. Merlin had protested that Gwen could surely be of some help, but Arthur had smiled sadly and disagreed. 

_Morgana adores Guinevere,_ he’d told Merlin. _And Guinevere loves and respects Morgana. But sometimes affection isn’t enough. There has to be trust. You and I both know that there is no one Morgana trusts more in this world than you, Merlin, even more than she trusts me._

Merlin isn’t sure about the last part. Arthur has a way of worming into people’s hearts with his charming arrogance, generous spirit, and quiet empathy. Morgana loves Arthur fiercely, more than Merlin does, even, and he knows that Morgana would choose to save Arthur’s life over anyone else’s every time. It comforts Merlin, to know that this conviction is another one that they both share. That he and Morgana can be united in their love for the prince as well as in their love for one another.)

“It’s alright, Morgana,” Merlin soothes, pressing his lips to the top of her head. She keens in response, her sobs wracking her slender frame violently. Merlin wants to cry, watching her come apart like this, wants to cry and scream and rage, but he can’t. He has to be the strong one, now, has to be Morgana’s anchor as she flails in a sea of fear and pain that she does not deserve to be trapped in. “It’s alright, let it out, come on, my love, it’s all going to be alright, just breathe, breathe, my love, breathe.”

Merlin rocks Morgana back and forth, pulls her close so that she’s sitting in his lap, her hair tangled up in his too-rough hands as he cups her face and presses his forehead to hers. He keeps murmuring sweet nothings, pressing kiss after kiss to her cheek, her brow, her chin, her nose, the corner of her mouth. Merlin catches each tear with his lips until all he can taste is salt and the honeyed flavor of her skin. They sit like that, gripping onto each other for dear life. He holds Morgana tightly to his chest as if he alone can hold her back from falling prey to that specter of fear that dogs her footsteps no matter what she does.

Merlin knows that his cowardice and cult of secrecy that comes with it might well be his downfall. He, like Morgana, is ruled almost solely by his fear. His fear of rejection, his fear of losing Arthur’s regard, and yes, his fear of death. But unlike Morgana, his fear is a calmer, more controllable sort, cultivated by years of having one sort of sanctuary to run to or another. The woods outside his mother’s house, the dragon’s cave, Gauis’ chambers-- all of these places have been to Merlin places of revitalization, of release. He can keep his secret without any trouble as long as he has a place where he doesn’t have to at least once in a while. 

But growing up, Morgana never had that luxury. She grew up alone in her confusion and pain, right under the nose of a man who would gladly execute her if he ever knew the truth. She grew up with a lie on her lips every moment of every day, and it is only now that Merlin lives in Camelot that she has anyone to run to. Morgana’s fear is a wild sort, one that escapes the confines of her skin and demands to be answered to. It controls her in a violent, destructive way that Merlin can’t understand, though he tries. Morgana hates secrets, they drive her insane-- she’s ruined many a birthday surprise for Arthur over the years with her big mouth-- so while Merlin finds comfort in them, she finds only a prison cell. 

Slowly but surely, Morgana relaxes in his arms. Merlin traces patterns into her back as she comes down from her frenzied panic, murmuring assurances and praise as her sobs cease. Finally, she takes her forehead from his, her red-rimmed eyes warm again, her expression considering. Morgana studies Merlin silently, her head cocked to one side, and Merlin has to wonder what she sees. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for fear of reminding her that she is in his lap, so close that the floral perfume she is so partial to is seeping into his clothing, so close that he will smell like her for the rest of the day. He doesn’t move because right now Morgana is calm and lovely and not trying to convince Merlin to commit murder. After a few moments of staring at Merlin like he was a particularly difficult spell she can’t master, Morgana seems to find what she’s looking for, and before Merlin can react, she is leaning forward and pressing her lips to his. 

Merlin has imagined kissing Morgana countless times in the past three years, but none of his wild imaginings have ever come close to the beauty he finds now. Morgana’s lips brush his softly, tentatively, just long enough that Merlin can inhale her breath, can feel the tacky texture of her lip rouge. She pulls away for a moment, her beautiful eyes wide with apprehension and no, no Morgana cannot be afraid of Merlin, she _can’t_ , he won’t let it stand, not when he loves her so. Carefully, Merlin leans forward again, slowly enough that Morgana could push him away. 

“Again,” Merlin says, trying to keep his voice steady and sure, but he is wretched, he is begging, he is _aching_ , and by the look of pleased wonderment on Morgana’s face, she knows it. The grin that spreads across her face is glorious, is bright enough that Merlin feels like he is staring at the sun. He moves one hand from her waist to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling into her curls. His other hand pulls Morgana even closer until she is flush against him, until he cannot tell where his body ends and hers begins. Morgana’s breath hitches at the contact, the tiny gasp wrenching a small, desperate moan from Merlin’s lips. “Again, Morgana, kiss me again, _please_.”

She doesn’t have to be asked twice. The kiss is soft and moist and hot and breathy and she tastes of lemons and vanilla and tears. Merlin quickly becomes drunk on the interplay between the three flavors, between tart and dulcet and briny. _Oh_ , this was sweetness beyond measure, this was soft rain on a summer evening, this was a cool glass of cider after a long day’s work, this was coming home from war and finding everything just as you left it. 

Morgana kisses with the same focused determination she has for everything else, but as their tongues hesitantly brush up against one another, Merlin knows that this is not a battle, this is not Morgana seeking dominance, for all that she is perched on top of him. She is too caught up in learning him, learning his sighs and his shivers to worry about control, but Merlin knows that she needn’t worry. He is hers, he has always been hers. Merlin is content to let her plunder his mouth as if she is looking for treasure, happy to bare his throat to her as she abandons his lips to press tiny, nibbling kisses to his neck and collarbone, to the delicate skin behind his ear. Every bit of skin Morgana kisses tingles, and Merlin is overwhelmed, he is drowsy and too warm and so, so glad. 

But now she is too far away. Merlin pulls Morgana's face back to him with the hand still tangled in her hair, earning him a desperate, shaking moan that he swallows down hungrily. Their kisses are no longer sweet and tender. They are wild and raw, and when Morgana takes Merlin’s bottom lip between her teeth he lets out an embarrassingly filthy sound that he will swear up and down he never made once he remembers how to think. But it is too hot out for something as trivial as conscious thought and anxiety and desire both still course through Merlin’s bloodstream like bolts of lightning. Merlin pours everything he has into this kiss, desperately trying to communicate every worry he has for her, trying to show her every bit of his heart that is Morgana’s and Morgana’s alone. She takes it from him, takes everything from him so beautifully as she moves to straddle him and he presses whispering kisses to her décolletage. 

“I love you,” Morgana groans, throwing her head back as Merlin trails his lips up from her neckline to the hollow of her throat. “Gods help me, but I love you.”

Merlin hums happily in response, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck and inhaling her. They’re both breathing heavily and Merlin knows that they have to stop. That he has to leave _now_ before he does something they’ll both regret tomorrow. It’s just too much to be with Morgana without being able to be with her, to take her hand and press his lips to her cheek without it having to be another terrible secret. Now, with Morgana in his arms and her lips swollen from his kisses, Merlin has never felt for Arthur more. 

(Later, Merlin and Morgana will finally talk about Uther and Morgana will confess to what she has learned about her mother. Later, they will argue viciously for the very first time and instead of apologizing, Morgana will take a risk that will leave Merlin reeling, for all that it succeeds. Later, Arthur will sneak into Merlin’s chambers and cry into his shoulder while Gwen looks on helplessly. Later, Merlin and Morgana will be enemies, for all that they will both be on the same side. Later, Merlin will curse this summer afternoon as the beginning of the end.

But for now, Morgana has told Merlin that she loves him. For now, that is enough.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this! The second chapter should be on its way soon what with the lockdown. I've been working on this story for a year on-and-off and I'm really excited to finally start sharing it! 
> 
> (Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed! Comments are my lifeblood, and I love to talk about my work. I hope that all of you are staying safe and healthy.)


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